


Icarus Was Human Too

by kaylakaboo



Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: F/M, Heavy Angst, Hurts So Good, So much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:14:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22785436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaylakaboo/pseuds/kaylakaboo
Summary: Nicknames are a given in firehouses. Three months into your new post as a paramedic on 61, you don’t have one and Otis thinks this is a flat-out travesty. You? You have an incredible save rate you prefer to keep quiet, but does it really matter in the end?
Relationships: Kelly Severide/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	1. Part One

It’s the dead of winter. The skies had opened up a week prior and coated the city in a blanket of white. With temperatures as low as they were, the cover had remained. 

Powdered stillness, peaceful silence. You take a moment to relish in it, listen to the echoes from the trains reverberate through the street. Severide joins you quietly and hands you a coffee with a soft smile.

The cold had stiffened your nose so you breathe in warm vanilla, hide your surprise that he knows exactly how you like it. Not well, you suppose, he laughs at your expression but only shrugs his shoulders simply.

You ache to know more of the quiet man with the heart of gold.

It’s a perfect moment for the tones to drop.

Drowning in the suburbs, adult male victim, unresponsive, most likely half frozen.

By the time you arrive, Severide has already pulled him out. Ice in his lashes, puffs of breath falling quickly from his lips, he’s started CPR. You tell him you’ve got it from here, he argues until you point out the blue of his lips and remind him hypothermic lieutenants are not helpful in the slightest. He’s still reluctant, you think it has something to do with the boy crying nearby, begging him to save his dad.

With a core temp of 96, you have warmed IV bags pushing fluids and Sylvie places a tube. You max out on adrenaline, place a 12 lead and watch the monitor. Asystole. You and Sylvie share a look, fearful you are truly staring at a dead heart.

You tell Cruz to push harder with his compressions anyways.

“He’s not dead until he’s warm and dead.” Mouch says quietly.

You ignore the peanut gallery. “Load and go.” You call out.

Halfway through the transport, you coax a decent, palpable rhythm. The man you’ve spent the last 30 minutes tirelessly working on is finally breathing with responsive, equal pupils to boot.

You pull a similar save with a drive by victim and Kelly buys your drinks at Molly’s. Another in the middle of an eight-car pileup, he takes you to breakfast the next morning.

They call you Chicago’s Angel. Miracle girl with magic in her fingers. You tell them you’ve just had a few good saves.

One night you’re lying beside Kelly, naked bodies still entwined and he reaches for your hands, holds them up. He abrades the soft skin of your fingers, massages his thumbs into your palms.

“Miracle fingers.” He croons to them.

You roll your eyes.

You gain a reputation at both Lakeshore and Chicago Med. A charge nurse quips that you’re wasting your talents. You tell her, “when you’ve found home, you’ve found home”. And you had. You found it in the family you saw every shift and in the man you had come to love. You being good at your job was just icing on the cake.

Months later, the hype dies down. Cheap halos are no longer taped to your locker and Capp has stopped bowing every time you walk by. You did your job just as well; it just seems the city was being kinder to its residents.

“Is it just me, or have things been a little… easy?” A member from engine says slowly. Everyone winces, waiting, but it’s quiet.

You don’t look up from your magazine, only lift one scathing finger to point in his direction. “Thin ice, Rodriguez.” You warn.

Then the tones drop.

Structure fire in an apartment complex.

Rodriguez slips away before anyone gets the chance to lay into him.

The building is half engulfed by the time everyone gets there. Boden gives his orders; you and Sylvie start triaging. Some burns were dressed and a few smoke inhalation patients sat with oxygen, but it appears that most of the residents got out quickly.

A small blessing.

A few minutes later, a woman becomes frantic, starts yelling she just learned her son had played hookie to sneak into his girlfriends’ room in one of the other apartments. She hasn’t seen him. Boden takes one look at Severide and he’s already adjusting his gear.

“Go.”

He takes Cruz with him.

When the mayday comes out over the radios, everything stops. You hold your breath, wait for more information. One of the floors had collapsed, there’s a rescue alarm going off, but the roar of the fire is making it difficult for you to distinguish words. Or maybe it’s the fact that you’re hyperventilating.

Sylvie takes over doing vitals on the patient you were with and you focus your ears, but Cruz is the only voice from inside you can hear.

“He’s not moving, Chief.” He calls out.

The air is sucked straight from your lungs all at once. You try to balance yourself against the ambulance doors, will your knees to keep holding you up. This is not how you react in times of stress, falling apart is supposed to be a foreign concept to you.

“Severide’s alive, but it’s not looking good.” Casey reports.

That shakes you from your spiral. You request an additional unit and a police escort. You wait beside Boden, square your shoulders and slow your breathing. They carry him out, limp body, head lulled to the side. Gently, they place him on a gurney and he looks scarily lifeless.

You have to swallow down the sick that washes over you.

“Get his gear off.” You order, voice shaky.

Casey catches your eye. “Y/N, we’ve got him, you can’t- “

“I want vitals on the screen.” You say a little stronger and turn to him. “What good is being The Angel if you can’t save the man you love.”

“I’ve got no breath sounds on the right.” Sylvie reports, knowing dragging you away would take time Kelly doesn’t have.

The rest is a blur. A 16-gauge in his chest, the hiss of trapped air, his body convulsing, electricity contracting his whole body. Fire and ash, humidity in the air. 

Then you’re at his head in the back of the ambulance, Cruz pushing the rig as fast as she can go, Casey is delivering breaths with red eyes and a full water line, and Sylvie is following each order you give her. Betadine and the silver glint of needles. Sirens and car horns.

There’s yelling. So much yelling, but you can’t really tell who it’s coming from.

When Dr. Rhodes opens the doors, hears the dreading tone of a flat-line, sees your body shaking softly, wrecked with sobs, he knows.

“We’ll do everything we can.” He tells you when they take him away. Your legs fall out from beneath you and Casey has to carry you.

Miracle girl with the magic fingers, how does it feel to fail?


	2. Part 2

First responders tend to carry their guilt wrapped in phrases like “what if”. Drown themselves in it like cheap whiskey, let the burn soften the sharp edges of the unknown.

You were no different.

You relive that day constantly, nitpick every decision you made, every move of your hands. Had you truly been his best option? You don’t treat loved ones for a reason, what if you had stepped aside? 

You curse yourself for having secretly simmered under their praises. Chicago’s Angel. Had you let it get to your head?

Did you take your wings of wax and fly them too high?

You talk yourself into a circle every day, replay it so many times your recall becomes fuzzy. You beg Casey to go over it with you again, and again, and again. The last time you asked Sylvie, her eyes had welled up. You don’t ask her anymore.

Miracle girl, where has your magic gone?

When Dr. Rhodes had cracked Kelly’s chest open right in front of you, you could’ve sworn you broke the tiled floors with your knees by the sickening crack you heard. It had echoed in your head and split your heart right in two. Joe picked you up, April asked if you wanted to be sedated. You ignored them, twisted your way out of their grasp to place a hand on the glass.

“Come back to me, please. Come back, baby, please.” Your voice was wrecked- throat raw and chest tight.

There’s a faint beep, then another. It wasn’t a normal rhythm by any means, but his heart was beating again. For you, that was enough. Dr. Rhodes looked to you, eyes weighted with something you couldn’t distinguish and ice flooded your veins. He came out, removed his mask and took your hand.

“We’ve bought you time.” He said softly.

You furrowed your brows in confusion. “What do you mean?

“Time to say goodbye.”

Your hand was stinging before you had even realized you’d slapped him. He held his face, eyes wide, but waved off security when they approached.

“No.” You said simply.

He lets you call him Connor after that.

He ends up placing Kelly in a medically induced coma and you cash in all of your furlough.

The Chief recommends that someone be with you. You tell him you don’t need a babysitter, you’re definitely fine. He points out the bags under your eyes, the sunken hollowness of your cheeks.

You still insist you’re okay.

Someone from 51 is with you at all times.

**

Fluorescent lights, garish walls, and antiseptic air weighing your lungs, the days blur together and you refuse to leave his side. The hospital staff stops trying to argue with you after about the third time you sneak back in. They tell you, “go home”, you tell them, “my home is in there”. 

April and Maggie special deliver you a cot, but you mostly prefer the chair by his bedside. Head on his thigh, arm draped protectively across him. 

Nightmares still haunt you every night, each one different than the last but somehow, they still ended the same: your hands covered in blood, your fingers sticking together.

Herrmann wakes you, hands you a glass of water.

“What was is this time?” He asks above you

You try to distract yourself by smoothing out Kelly’s blankets and untangle his IV line. “Pregnant woman, car accident.” You whisper.

He nods in response, places a comforting hand on your shoulder. There’s a gasp from Kelly before he begins convulsing, limbs flailing, head jerking. His heart-rate skyrockets and then there’s nothing. You watch the flat-line in horror, frozen where you stand. You think Connor pushes you back into Herrmann, but you can’t feel anything.

The scene unfolds before you like a movie as your mind distances you from it as best it can, tries to desensitize you just so you’ll survive the horrid ending. Compressions and needles, imaging, yelling. It feels so far away.

Connor looks back at you, and you know that look. You’ve seen it in the mirror every day.

Failure.

You swear you die right there.

**

The perfume of the pearlescent lilies makes your nose itch and you grasp onto the feeling, it’s the first thing you’ve felt in weeks. There’s a hand on your shoulder, but you can’t hear what its owner says. You don’t particularly care if you’re being honest.

You feel nauseous at the sea of black surrounding you, it’s bordering on being far too real. You already felt like you were falling into a void, drowning in all the nothingness that seemed to have invaded your life. You’re not quite sure when you’ll be able to laugh again, when colors will no longer be this dull.

You can’t bring yourself to look at his body.

A woman you don’t know tells you you’ll regret it and you want to laugh. Doesn’t she know you already have so many? What’s one more?

You’re told the ceremony is beautiful, you honestly can’t remember most of it. Benny has his arm wrapped around yours and you’re quite certain it’s the only reason you’re still standing. Sylvie tells you she misses her partner; you smile and repeat the sentiment. Boden tells you not to rush coming back. You haven’t decided if you ever will.

You must black out for a bit, because the next thing you see is the bright sun through squinted eyes. How dare it shine so bright when this world should be mourning the loss of its brightest light, of its golden hearted man.

There’s blood on your fingers, you must have pricked yourself on the rose you laid out. You wipe it on your dress.

There’s more speeches, analogies, and awful poetry. They hand you the folded flag and you place it in your lap. It sits there for a moment and suddenly it’s the heaviest thing you’ve ever felt. It crushes your legs and burns hot on your fingers- scorches the exposed skin of your thighs. You could swear your skin is bubbling.

Your breathing picks up.

When they start to lower the casket, that’s when you break.

You’re not supposed to be here; this is not supposed to be happening.

There are eyes on you and you’re hyperventilating. Your body feels scorching hot, flames licking your skin. Thick black smoke, your chest is tight, and you swear your throat is closing. Casey wraps an iron clad grip around your waist when you try to throw yourself into the hole.

Miracle girl, where has your love gone?

You beg with tearful sobs, claw uselessly at clothed arms. Your throat is raw and vision blurry. Something thick and slick coats your hands. When you catch sight of the red pouring from you, it’s your scream that awakens you.

You shoot up, a mess of wild hair and sweat dabbled skin. There’s salt on your lips, tear stains on your pillow, and your hand aches from gripping the sheets in your fist so tightly. You look over and the empty side of the bed stares daggers at you. You collapse into his pillow and let your sobs wreck your body.

Miracle girl, this world has broken you.

There’s a sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs and your door is flung open. The bed dips beside you and hands start to glide over your body. Frantic. There’s whispers you can barely make out, soothing words to stop your cries. You bury yourself further.

Kelly brushes your hair back and messages his fingers into your back.

He tries to hush you. “What is it? What happened? Y/N, baby, talk to me.” You simply bury your head in his lap and he holds you close. 

He’s fairly certain he knows exactly what dream you had, it happens less than it used to, but you still have it sometimes. He thinks it might have something to do with the knowledge that you both have to return to work soon. He chooses to cover his basses anyways, assuring you that that he is fine, you are fine, everyone is fine.

When your tears have slowed, he moves you to the side, lays down, and pulls you too him.

“Talk to me.” You croak out.

“About what?”

“Anything.”

He complies. He starts with the weather report he heard that morning, recounts the Blackhawks game from the night before almost play by play, and drones on about a boat he’s fixing. You listen, try not to make a sound. You don’t want to miss a single word, not a single chuckle.

You trail your fingers along his bare chest. Run your fingertips between the divots of his abdomen, revel in his laugh when it tickles. You move your way up to the thick pink scar in the center of his chest and trace its edges. You quietly remark it’s healing pretty well.

He laughs. “Because you were directly involved. I find bandage changes pretty annoying.”

You look up at him and raise a brow. “Lowering your chances for infection and your healing time is annoying?”

“What can I say, I live dangerously.” He says with a smirk.

You laugh, a loud sound that bursts from your lips like stardust and he swears he could listen to it for the rest of his life. He’ll tell you one day that he plans to.

He smiles, bright and wide. “There’s my girl.”

You lay your head back on his chest, burrow your cheek right over his heart to listen to it beat. The sure sound that solidifies his existence, tells you with absolute certainty that he is here. He is alive. 

You tuck your hand beneath his side and hug him tight, he places a kiss on the top of your head.

“Can we stay here a little longer?” You ask, eyelids heavy.

“As long as you need.”

Miracle girl with the magic fingers, one day you will recover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Tumblr! kayla-kaboo

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 may or may not fix you.


End file.
